by Julie Miller
“Don’t worry about that, sweetie. Grant’s taken care of all that for me.”
An anvil of dread thunked down in the pit of Grace’s stomach. “He found you an apartment?” She hoped.
“He invited me to stay with him at his penthouse. I’m calling from there right now. Oh, you should see it, sweetie, the view is so beautiful from up here, with all the city lights sparkling.”
“Mother—”
“And everything is decorated in ivory and gold. Except for Grant’s bedroom, it has dark—”
“Mother!”
Mimsey sighed. Grace could envision her mother shaking her platinum head. “Gracie, sweetheart. This is the new millennium. Men and women live together now. Grant has agreed to keep our relationship as platonic or personal as I want it to be.”
“Which is it—platonic or personal?”
Mimsey giggled. Oh, God. Grace thumped the phone against her forehead, wishing she could just as easily knock some sense into her mother’s head. How many times had this scene played out in their lives? Mimsey putting her faith in one man, giving him her heart and trust, while the man wanted something considerably less noble.
How many times had Grace listened to Mimsey’s tears when the man moved on to his next conquest? And she never would understand her mother’s ability to forgive and move on to take yet another chance on love.
Voicing her concerns hadn’t helped in the past, but she had to try. “Would you think about getting your own place, Mother? At least until you’re sure that Grant Stewart is the one for you.”
“I know you worry about me, and I appreciate that.” Mimsey’s voice took on an uncharacteristically serious tone. “But Grant’s different from the other men I’ve known.” She’d heard that before, too. “Be happy for me, Gracie.”
She’d surrender the battle. For now. But tomorrow she’d run Grant Stewart’s name through the Bureau records. Just in case.
“I hope everything turns out the way you want.”
“Me, too. Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Mother.”
Grace carried her steno pad and the phone upstairs to her bedroom and wondered if failure was an inherited trait in Lockhart women.
“LAST CALL, Mr. Pierce.”
Logan looked up from the bourbon he’d been nursing the past hour and nodded at the bartender. “I’m good, Danny.”
So. He’d sunk to this. Closing down the local bar in an effort to drown out the emotions in his system. Four fingers of bourbon hadn’t done the trick.
He could still see Harris Mitchell’s eyes, glued to Grace’s cleavage. While she fumbled to balance herself, he’d averted his icy-blue gaze ever so slightly to get a glimpse down the front of her blouse. Logan had wanted to ram his fist down Mitchell’s throat for ogling Grace like that. For keeping his hands on her longer than what was politely necessary.
Grace was his to mold and train. He was teaching her his damn list of what was sexy, not Mitchell’s. Well, she was taking his list and running with it. Oh, yeah. She was getting the sexy part down pat. Moving that body and making those sounds and…
Logan groaned at the pitiful picture he must make, sitting on a bar stool, half aroused, lusting after the most stubborn woman on the planet. He should be mad at her. He was mad at her.
But he still wanted her.
Every bit of frustration and impatience about training Grace Lockhart for this job seemed to be manifesting itself in his groin.
As he reached inside his pocket for Danny’s tip, he caught the eye of the trim, leggy brunette sitting a couple of stools away. She and her cute redheaded friend smiled at him.
Maybe that was the answer. Pick up some willing chick—or two—and get the sexual frustration out of his system. He hadn’t been with a woman since long before his last deep cover assignment. And that had lasted four months! That was it. Get laid. Then he could teach sex appeal without actually having sex and Grace on his brain 24/7.
Logan winked.
The two women practically jumped off their stools. He could have them both if he turned on the charm.
But the redhead giggled like a schoolgirl.
And the brunette really was too skinny for his tastes.
And neither one of them had big green eyes.
Logan slapped his money on the bar and picked up his tie. He’d better get home before he did something he might regret.
He toasted them with his glass and polished off the bourbon. “Good night, ladies.”
The unusually warm autumn night didn’t help cool a thing as he walked the three blocks back to his condo. He tried to focus on the more unpleasant aspects of agent training. Weapons. Crime studies. Psychological torture.
But somehow, every time he tried to plug Grace into one of those scenarios, his brain went off on a sexual tangent. It was probably just that heavenly body of hers, he reasoned, that turned every training exercise into fore-play.
Logan jogged up the steps to his condo and went inside. He reset the alarm system and shrugged out of his jacket. He untucked and unbuttoned his shirt as he crossed into the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge. The cold liquid chilled his throat and trickled downward, dampening the heat in his body, and giving Logan a usable idea.
Maybe denial was the wrong way to go about this. What if he could sleep with Grace—just once? That would get her out of his system. With her lack of experience, she probably wouldn’t be any good in bed, anyway, and these hellish fantasies would finally go away in the light of reality.
Okay, so that theory didn’t take into account how her natural instincts had nearly done him in at both the department store and the firing range.
Logan swore. No way was Grace Lockhart ready to take on Harris Mitchell. She wasn’t comfortable with her body. She couldn’t think on her feet. She analyzed everything to death—including his moods—which meant she lacked the spontaneity that was so critical to undercover work. And now they were down to three days of training!
Not nearly enough time to work a miracle, and way too long for his body to endure this tension.
Logan went up to the bedroom and kicked off his shoes. He stripped off his belt and socks and sat on the bed, debating the benefits of a cold shower before going to sleep.
He drank a long swig of beer and set the bottle on his nightstand. Next to the phone.
A vengeful idea whispered in the back of his mind.
He’d call Grace. Right now: 1:00 a.m.
He could tell her to meet him at seven instead of eight tomorrow. He chuckled in his throat as the idea took form. As meticulous as Grace was, she’d probably snap at him for waking her so late. That would certainly put him out of the mood.
Before his less vindictive side could warn him that the liquor might be fueling his ideas, he’d dialed her number.
The phone rang two and a half times before she answered. He heard a click. Then a breathy sigh. The rustle of sheets.
“Hello?”
Big mistake.
“Hello?”
Logan’s groin tightened as if she’d put her hands right on his crotch.
Just roused from sleep, her sinfully husky voice aroused thoughts of a telephone sex talk fantasy. The kind in which a man called and the woman said all sorts of nasty things to him. If Grace could talk dirty…
He grabbed the pillow beside him and set it in his lap. Smooth move, Pierce. He cursed himself silently. It seemed like every plan backfired when Grace was around.
“It’s Logan.” He used his gruffest voice, hoping to startle the sleepy seduction out of hers. “Did you get home okay?”
He heard some more of that shuffling sound. She was sitting up in bed, adjusting the sheets and whatever she wore to bed. Oh God. What if she didn’t wear anything to bed?
He squeezed his eyes shut and caught his breath, picturing Grace in a flannel nightgown buttoned all the way to her neck. A shapeless, sacky thing that hid her curves. He released one breath, but caught another as his chest tight
ened when his thumb settled against a button on his shirt. Next thing he knew he was unbuttoning that imaginary gown in his mind, pushing it up past her hips—
“Is something wrong? Obviously I got home fine. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Oh, yeah. He wished he was, too.
Logan had never been one to butt his head against the inevitable. Unlike Grace, he could adjust to situations as they changed, make them suit his purpose. She owed him some cooperation. And his body was too tired to fight any longer.
“You alone?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Logan adjusted the fit of the pillow in his lap. “Good. It’s time for another lesson.” God, he could be such a liar.
“Now?”
He’d caught her off guard. That should work to his advantage. “This is the kind of thing you need to practice when there’s no one else around.”
“Should I get my steno pad?” He could hear her scrambling around some more.
“No. This isn’t something to write in your notes.”
He had her full, waking attention now. “What do you mean?”
“Rule number nine, Grace.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Talk dirty.”
“What?” He smiled with relief. Okay, here was the telling-him-to-go-to-hell part. He’d get some sleep tonight, after all. “Are you serious?”
“A lot of men like that. And with Mitchell’s kinky habits, I’m sure it’s on his list, too. You can’t laugh or blush with embarrassment while you’re doing it, either, or he’ll know you’re a fraud.”
“But I never—”
“I didn’t think so.” Logan tossed the pillow aside. He made his voice sound apologetic. “I didn’t mean to shock you. I just wanted to prepare you for any contingency that might come up.”
“Do you really think I need to learn how to talk dirty?”
An inkling of doubt marred his smug triumph over his obsession with Grace. Why wasn’t she telling him off? He stood and tried to ignore his physical state. “We’ll work around it. Tomorrow we’ll get back to the physical training, bright and early. Talk to you then.”
“Wait.” Her expectant pause made him sit again. “I don’t know what to say. Will you help me?”
Help her live out one of his fantasies?
She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m sorry about tonight at the restaurant. I really did forget my purse.” Her breathy hesitation socked him somewhere north of his groin. “I don’t want to screw this up. I need to get Mitchell.”
“Why is this case so important to you? Why aren’t you content to be a successful computer n—” He swallowed the last word, knowing the nickname didn’t fit.
“Nerd? It’s okay to say it. Up until two days ago, I looked the part. In a lot of ways I still am socially inept. That’s what ‘nerd’ means, you know.” Her breath puffed out on a self-deprecating laugh. “You probably didn’t want to know that. See? I am a nerd when it comes to normal, human—especially male-female—interaction.” Her voice faded away. “I’ll shut up now.”
Her matter-of-fact acceptance tugged at his conscience. “So you think the glamorous life of a field agent will cure your nerdiness? Take it from me, it’s not all fun and glory.”
“It’s not the glamour. It’s complicated to explain, but…I just need to succeed in the world on my own terms. I don’t want to rely on anyone else to give me success or happiness. I want to earn it.”
“You want to know that it’s yours to keep?”
This soft, gentle talking, shared in the privacy of a late-night phone call, soothed his frayed temper and eased his conscience.
“Yeah.”
“I want you to succeed. I do.” This hushed conversation had suddenly grown very personal. “Undercover work is like that sometimes. Any humor you share or friends you make—it all gets taken away from you when the case is over. Sometimes it gets taken away from you before then.”
“Like Roy Silverton?”
His soul turned inside out at the memory of his lost partner. “I don’t know why you want to get into this line of work, Gracie. Sorry. I know you don’t like to be called that.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind it so much when you say it.” Her honey-soft voice poured like a healing caress over some very old wounds. “It sounds sort of…personal.”
Personal. Logan leaned back against the pillows at the head of the bed. He was beginning to like getting personal with Grace. “It’s hard when you come home from a case, too. It’s like you’ve been living in a different world, and then suddenly everything is back to normal.”
“Did you ever want to quit undercover work?” She sounded as if she were settling into bed, too.
“Once.” After Roy had died he’d doubted he could ever work another undercover op. But he had. He’d overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles and succeeded as an agent.
So would Grace. Come hell or high water, if he had anything to say about it—and he did—so would Grace.
A different kind of energy pulsed through his veins. Easier than the anger and lust that had tortured him before. This energy was sparked by a higher purpose. And it didn’t necessarily have to do with Grace’s training. “So. What are you wearing?”
“My flannel pajamas. Why?”
“Even if you’re wearing a burlap bag, you should tell a man you’re in something sexy.”
“Is this the ‘talk dirty’ lesson?”
“Maybe. Let’s just keep talking. So what are you wearing, Gracie?”
If she didn’t want to play along, then fine, he could go to sleep with a lighter conscience. And if she did…well, he’d still go to sleep a happy man.
“Should I be naked?”
Whoa. Logan took a deep breath and offered some advice. “Start with something else. Let the interest build to the good stuff.”
“Okay, then…”
He held his breath, wondering what she’d come up with.
“…I’m wearing that ivory silk bra-slip that you liked so much at the department store. You know, it was short and had the lace over the breasts.”
His breath seeped out. “I really liked how I could see through the lace. I could see the rosy circles around your nipples.”
She cleared her throat. “What are you wearing?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.” She laughed. “And it better not be flannel pajamas.”
He shrugged out of his shirt, feeling the room temperature climb. “Just my slacks from dinner tonight. I was on my way to bed.”
“No shirt?” He shook his head as if she could see the movement. “Is this when I’m supposed to talk dirty?”
His body was interested, but he wasn’t ready yet. He doubted she was, either. “Not yet. Let’s start with what you see.”
“How do I know what I’m looking at?”
“Use your imagination. Close your eyes if you have to.”
She breathed in deeply. In his mind’s eye, he could see those green eyes closing. A tiny dimple appeared on her forehead as she frowned in concentration. “I see your chest. It’s just got a sprinkling of hair, right?”
“And there’s a line that goes—” He traced the line of hair down to his waistband and stopped.
“That goes where?”
Logan reached for the pillow again. “Down into my pants.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Her shocked silence last long enough that he thought she’d stopped playing the game. Grace Lockhart’s frustrating combination of lusty natural instincts and sexual inexperience was going to be the death of him yet.
But then again, this was the woman who refused to fail any challenge set in front of her.
“May I unzip your pants?”
Logan’s chest shook with palpable relief. He pictured Grace’s hands on him, opening his pants, freeing him. “Please. Tell me everything you’re doing.”
“I’m unzipping them. Slowly. I’m watching to see where the trail of hair winds up, but I can’t find the end. I’m p
ushing your pants aside.” He squeezed his eyes shut and savored the pressure building against the pillow. “Do I find boxers or briefs?”
“Which do you like?”
“Briefs.”
“That’s what I’m wearing.”
Grace fell silent, dragging out a long breath of air. He imagined that soft breath blowing across his arousal. He reached beneath the pillow and unzipped his trousers, giving his straining member some room to swell.
“What kind of underwear do you have on?” he asked.
“I’m not wearing any.”
The electric current that had simmered in his veins kicked up to a dangerous level. “Nothing?”
“Underneath my pajamas, no. Oh. I see.” Instead of self-conscious embarrassment, she sounded disoriented. Lost. “I guess we’re both naked. Underneath.”
“Yeah?” For a long, silent moment he thought she’d quit the game and hung up. “Grace?”
“I’m sorry. You said I should…” Her voice caught on a breathy moan. “Could we keep talking? Oh, Logan, am I doing this right? Am I supposed to feel something, too?”
8
THAT NOT-SO-INNOCENT little vixen was getting turned on by this, too!
Was she supposed to feel anything? Only if she was doing this right. And, man, she was doing this oh, so right.
“Yeah, Gracie. Tell me what you feel.”
“Hot. And heavy. Down there.”
“It’s called your clitoris. Put your hand down there. It’s swelling up.”
Oh, God. She’d done it. She’d touched herself. That deep, husky moan that was half a cry and half a breath left Logan openmouthed and gasping for air himself.
“Gracie?”
“I know what it’s called. Is that what you want me to say? Should I talk like that?”
“Just keep talking.” He squirmed on the bed, wondering if Grace was twisting herself up in her covers, too. “How does it feel?”
“It’s…” She paused and he imagined she was testing herself. “I’m wet. It’s slick. And sticky.”
“I want you to touch me, too.” It was half a plea and half an order. “Tell me how you’re touching me.”